"Why, just look at that hand!" she cried, with a tremor of surprise.
"Don't you see what it is? Don't you think it's a woman's?"

I gazed back at her incredulously.

"Impossible," I answered, shaking my head. "It belongs as clear as
day to the man you see in the photograph. How on earth could his
hand be a woman's then, I'd like to know? I can see the shirt-cuff."

"Why, yes," Jane answered, with simple common-sense: "it's DRESSED
like a man, of course, and it's a man to look at; but the hand's a
woman's, as true as I'm standing here. Why mightn't a woman dress in
a man's suit on purpose? And perhaps it was just because they were
so sure it was a man as did it, that the police has gone wrong so
long in trying to find the murderer."

I looked hard at the hand myself. Then I shut my eyes, and thought
of the corresponding object in my mental Picture. The result fairly
staggered me. The impression in each case was exactly the same. It
was a soft and delicate hand, very white and womanlike. But was it
really a woman's? I couldn't feel quite sure in my own mind about
that; but the very warning Jane gave me seemed to me a most useful
one. It would be well, after all, to keep one's mind sedulously open
to every possible explanation, and to take nothing for granted as to
the murderer's personality.